


Pressure Point: Baby Brother

by LadyGlinda



Series: The Iceman And The Sociopath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cameos Of John And Mary Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dirty Talk, Light Bondage, M/M, Murder, No Eurus Holmes, Sherlock Being Creepy, Sibling Incest, Smut, Sociopathic Sherlock Holmes, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-05 23:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19051036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft are living together. Life is good. Sherlock finds a new occupation. And then a threat arises.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two of the series. You should have read Part One to get into the story.

### A New Game

“What exactly are you doing there, pal?”

Sherlock didn’t bother turning around. He had heard the footsteps. A man, medium size, rather slim, trained. With the additional information that the voice provided, he thought _, 'The man in charge. Detective Inspector. A bit older than Mycroft. East-London-bred. Smart but without much imagination. Cautious. Thinks I could be the killer. Does he really think the murderer would still hang around here? Staring at the body in broad daylight? If he depends on that to solve his cases, he must have lots of unsolved ones…_

“Drawing my conclusions,” he calmly answered the man's questions. “I can tell you where you have to look for your man.” He glanced over at the other cops, who were searching for clues in the small park, collecting evidence, paying no attention to him.

He had been on his way back from visiting the Tower just to please Mycroft, who was worried when he stayed in the house all day. Of course he was worried when Sherlock went outside as well… But it couldn’t harm to do some sightseeing after all. It had been a bit tough to ignore all those bothersome tourists but he had managed. And he had taken the opportunity to buy some goodies for their dinner and a new red ball for _Onni With The Sharp Teeth._

“Do you now.” The man had reached him and stood right next to him.

Onni pulled at the leash to get to him but Sherlock made a humming noise that made him sit down at once and looking up to him with admiration. Good dog! Sherlock smiled at him before he went on speaking.

“Yes. And _not_ because I killed her, just to save you some time.” Sherlock didn’t turn to face the man. From the corner of his eye he grasped that he was a tad shorter than him and had prematurely greyed. He was dressed in slim trousers and a blue shirt; both had seen better days. _Too busy to care much about his appearance._

“Hm,” the man made. “So enlighten me. Who am I looking for?”

A fairly smart man indeed. But of course he still considered Sherlock could be the one he was looking for. Predictable. And he certainly didn’t think it because he could sense anything about Sherlock's character but because he simply behaved in a suspicious way in his suspicious cop eyes. Sherlock had read every book the Sherrinford library had offered about crime. A fascinating subject… Actually he had read or rather devoured every book he could get his hands on. Biographies of all sorts, for example; Thatcher, Houdini, Ghandi, Wiesenthal. Books about science, even religion, novels, even sappy love stories that had made him roll his eyes but they had helped pass the time. What else was there to do in a prison cell? He should do some chemical experiments as he found them fascinating. In a very safe way. He really didn’t have any intention to blow up the house. Mycie wouldn’t approve…

Anyway…

“She knew him,” he calmly said, glancing at the roped-off part of the lawn where the young woman in the white shirt and the blue jeans was lying with her open eyes to the sky. Sherlock remembered the old (and hilariously stupid) theory that the picture of the killer was imprinted on the victim's irises. Would save the police a lot of time surely. “Probably a co-worker or an ex-boyfriend. My bet's on the former. There was an argument. He didn’t come with a plan to kill her. Used a heavy branch to smash her head in with three, no four blows. Buried her hastily. Dog's found her?”

The man had listened with bated breath. “Yes. How do you know that all?”

They were making progress. He had almost dismissed the possibility that Sherlock was the one he was looking for. This was fun! Sherlock liked this. Nobody had ever listened to him. Except for Mycie of course.

Sherlock had taught himself to do very fast deductions. Or actually he had one day discovered that he could make them. He had always been able to say which guard had problems at home or who had a secret affair, more than once with another prisoner… And he had been able to see Mycie's instant desire for him and his horror about feeling like this when he had come into this room in Sherrinford. He just could read people. And apparently he could also read crime scenes. What an unexpected treat! “I can see it from how she's lying there. Find out which of her colleagues had a crush on her, probably unrequited but she might have gone out with him once or twice.”

“This is just… amazing. If you're right.”

“Of course I'm right.”

“What's your name?”

Sherlock finally turned to him. A good-looking face, its youth contrasting the grey hair. Huge brown eyes, lips too thin for his taste. _He does have problems at home…_ _Probably married even though he doesn’t wear a ring. Marriage about to fail._ “My name... Don't bother.”

“Oh, please. Let me start then. I'm DI Gregory Lestrade, New Scotland Yard, Murder Squad.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sherlock Holmes.” He only thought a second too late that he should have probably used a false identity…

“What?” The cop looked utterly confused. Somehow it looked cute even though it was probably his usual state of mind.

He grinned. “That's it. My name.”

“Oh, sure. _Sherlock_ … Interesting.”

“That's one way to put it… I have to go now.”

“Please, can I have your number?”

“You're not my type.”

His aim had been to make the man blush and feel embarrassed, but he just grinned and shook his head. “You're enjoying yourself pretty much, telling me all this, showing off your cleverness. And if you're right… You could do it again one day, if I have trouble solving a case.”

“I bet you do all the time…” His payback for the 'showing off' part. Even though it was true of course. Both, actually…

“Charming. You could work as an unofficial consultant. Paid.”

“I don't need money.” But the idea appealed to him without a doubt. A consulting… detective? Someone like… Poirot? Yes. Definitely appealing. “All right. I'll give you my number. But no address.” They wouldn’t find him. He had no official address. Did he even officially _exist_? He had never bothered to find out and he didn’t care. He didn’t plan to get a driver licence or run for an office. He lived with his brother and this arrangement was going to last. Until his very last breath as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want to vote, either. From what he could tell, they were all the same idiots… “No questions about me. I'm a phantom.”

The policeman scrutinised him for a long moment. He was far from being dumb but he would never in his wildest dreams guess who Sherlock was and how he had spent his life so far. “If we find the killer and he is who you said he is…”

“He will.”

“…then there is no need for me to ask you about your life. And actually I do have some cold cases nobody can make anything of. Would you care to have a look?”

“Sure. If I can have copies to take with me. I don't like to read among other people.” Actually he didn’t like to be around people.

The older man nodded slowly. “Depending on how this case turns out… this won't be a problem.”

Sherlock was not sure at all this was a good idea, considering everything. But Mycroft had been right – he needed to occupy his brain. As much as he enjoyed working in the garden and playing with Onni or chatting with Mrs Hudson, there was still a lot of time to pass. But who would have thought he would ever be on the other side of the law?

When he eventually left, the happy dog next to him, he was grinning.

### Surprising Revelations

Mycroft let himself fall into his armchair. “You're going to… work… for the police.” _Every time you think you've reached the bottom of the rabbit hole…_

Sherlock smiled. “Sounds like the joke of the century, doesn't it? But I won't wear a silly uniform and carry a baton. I won't receive any payment and it will be completely off the record.”

How was this even possible? What sort of a detective inspector would give a complete stranger access to police files or perhaps even crime scenes without the permission of his bosses? And who would ask _Sherlock_ to solve murder cases?

“He has no idea who I am.” Sherlock had easily read his mind. “He only knows he caught a murderer because I told him where to look for him. He was over the moon when he called.”

Mycroft was used to being deduced easily by now. Sherlock had been staying with him for four months now and he didn’t even try to hide anything from him anymore, knowing it to be pointless. “What if he asks questions about your past?” Of course Mycroft would have a thorough look at this policeman's past, too…

“What will he find if he investigates?” Sherlock asked without replying. It was surprising enough he only wanted to know this now.

“Not a lot. He will see that you exist and that all information about you is classified.”

Sherlock looked baffled. “You just… arranged that?”

“Course I did.” Mycroft sounded a tad too proud to his own ears but it was nice to show off a bit. And he did have a lot of power and he had never before used it for any personal purpose. But protecting Sherlock had become his goal number one…

Sherlock got up from his own chair, putting Onni, who had been sitting on his lap and tearing on his shirt playfully, gently onto the floor and came over to him. “My powerful, wicked, sexy brother…”

“That's me.” Mycroft smiled at him and then he had a lapful of Sherlock and was kissing impossibly soft lips. It got him every time. Nothing felt better than having his arms around Sherlock and his tongue playing with his. Apart from having sex with him, of course. Or holding him just to feel his heartbeat against his chest. But kissing was very high on the list of things he had grown to love madly over the past months.

They went on kissing for a while until Mycroft's stomach started to growl, and they both laughed.

“Time to dine my hard-working man,” Sherlock said with a wink and got up. “Dinner's ready.”

“Fine. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Sherlock grinned. “He said he won't ask and if he changes his mind, I won't tell him anything. Let him wrack his not very impressive brain. He can be grateful I'm working for him.”

“…instead of giving him even more to do,” slipped out of Mycroft's mouth before he could really think about it.

But to his relief, Sherlock just laughed out loud and pinched his arse none too gently and Mycroft's cock reacted at once. Sherlock glanced down on him and winked. “Interesting reaction. Worth elaborating… But let's feed you first. We wouldn’t want you to collapse when we indulge in our incestuous pleasures later.”

 _'I love you'_ , Mycroft thought. Neither of them had said those words, not in earnest. But he was completely, head-over-heels, undyingly in love with his little brother even though he still wasn't a hundred percent sure what Sherlock was feeling for him, if he was even able to feel like this for someone walking on two legs at all. But at least he was still here with him, and their sex life was all Mycroft hadn't even dreamt about, and Sherlock did seem to like to cuddle with him and they could talk to each other and laugh with each other and God Mycroft hoped Sherlock loved him as much as he loved him and wouldn’t do anything insane anymore because Mycroft just couldn’t imagine being without him for even a single day. And it was actually good news that Sherlock had something really challenging to do now – something on the right side of the law.

He followed Sherlock to the kitchen. And God knew he would follow him _everywhere_.

*****

“So… Have you ever thought of doing something more… edgy?”

Mycroft continued to unbutton his shirt while watching Sherlock closely. “Does it bore you? What we do?”

Sherlock smiled. “Have you got the impression that it does, Mycie?”

“Not exactly.”

The soon-to-be detective made a nonchalant gesture with his right hand. He had already undressed and Mycroft would never get tired of watching this gorgeous body. “It doesn’t of course. But the way you reacted to the arse-pinching was not what I expected.”

“And what did you expect? Me yelping and jumping?” A low chuckle told Mycroft that this was exactly what Sherlock had expected. He raised one eyebrow. “Have you got the impression that I'm a fragile maiden, Sherlock?” In fact their sexual encounters were still mostly a rough clashing of two passionate men that couldn’t get enough of one another. They were raw and intense and quick and they both took as well as they gave and it was by far the most exciting sex Mycroft had had in his life. And what if he liked the quiet and intense moments of cuddling in the aftermath even more than the sex? And yet he had enjoyed being pinched. If anything could still embarrass him, it certainly would…

Sherlock stepped very close to him, his half-hard prick nudging against Mycroft's still clothed groin. “No, brother dear. But still it was a surprise.”

Of course Mycroft had been surprised as well that a rather painful pinch caused his prick to get up. He had never considered this kind of play – being hurt and getting off on it. And he was still not entirely certain that he would like to be in an exceptionally vulnerable position, not even or perhaps especially not with Sherlock. A flicker of something close to hurt appeared in Sherlock's eyes as he could easily deduce Mycroft's thoughts. Mycroft pulled him close at once. “All right. Do it again and see what happens.”

“You're sure? Don't do anything because you think you have to indulge me. Even more than you do anyway…”

“Just slap my bum.” Mycroft finally proceeded to get completely naked as well. He was watching Sherlock very closely, and he was well aware that he was not afraid of a Sherlock completely in control but of one who might lose it and turn against him. But he knew it was silly. Sherlock didn’t want to harm him. After their sex they were both sore in certain places and had trouble walking or sitting for a day or two but there had never been anything really aggressive in Sherlock's behaviour. Not in bed and not outside of it.

He kneeled down on the bed, presenting his bare arse to his brother in a gesture that was remarkably wanton for him, and looked at him over his shoulder.

Sherlock's pupils blew wide at the sight. He licked his lips. “Oh, that looks nice…”

It wasn’t as if he was seeing Mycroft's backside for the first time – he had taken him countless times and used his tongue on it in very pleasurable ways. And now he slapped one of his pale globes without any further warning, and he slapped sharply. Mycroft flinched and hissed, but his cock filled out rapidly at the sting.

Sherlock chuckled behind him and slapped him again, this time on the other globe, and while Mycroft was still hissing at the burn and the strong pull in his groin, he started fondling his balls and plunged his face into his crack, and the next moment Mycroft cried out and released himself in thick spurts over the bed and realised there were still things that did indeed embarrass him…

But Sherlock didn’t mock him for going off like a rocket. Instead he flung himself onto the bed right next to where Mycroft had collapsed. “Now that was intense.”

“Stating the obvious is for the goldfish,” Mycroft mumbled, his cheeks still hot.

“The Iceman likes his arse thrashed,” Sherlock said in a pensive tone. “Who would have thought…”

Mycroft certainly hadn't, and he wasn’t in the mood to discuss his obvious submissive streak. Instead he grabbed for Sherlock's cock and pulled at it. He hadn't come after all and it would hopefully distract him from the unwelcome subject.

But Sherlock batted his hand away. “I'd rather give you some dessert,” he rumbled and pushed Mycroft onto his back just to straddle his face in one smooth movement. His pink hole appeared right before Mycroft's eyes and there was nothing else to do than poking his tongue out and going to work.

He could hear Sherlock's quiet moaning through the noise of the slurping noises – Sherlock showed nothing of the loud utterings of pleasure he had tortured Mycroft with during the first nights after moving in with him – and he indulged in the infatuating, musky taste of his brother's hole as he licked and lapped and sucked, forcing his tongue into him from time to time. His hands were holding Sherlock's wonderful cheeks and he could feel him tremble under his ministrations. He would have loved to take him now but there was no way in hell that he would get ready soon enough.

“Put your finger into me,” Sherlock commanded, and he followed the order at once after wetting the finger with his spit, and it slid into his brother's well-used hole with ease, and he crooked it at exactly the right spot to bring him as much pleasure as possible.

Sherlock was beating off frantically now, and he came with a low cry with Mycroft's finger working up his arse, showering his chest and belly with his hot semen.

A moment later he was lying half on top of Mycroft, ignoring the mess, and his hand slid up and down Mycroft's sensitive side. “Magic tongue. Magic finger,” he mumbled.

Mycroft grinned. “Magic bum.” Meaning Sherlock's, of course.

“Should I get a riding crop for pleasing you?” Sherlock asked him in a completely innocent tone.

“Shut up,” Mycroft growled, and Sherlock laughed.

### A Chat With Mrs Hudson

“Ah, there you are. In your paradise! I've never even seen such flowers in my entire life!” She pointed at some exceptionally beautiful petals, violet and yellow and gorgeous and strangely intimidating.

Sherlock had looked up from his folder and was smiling at the elderly woman. “Good morning, Mrs Hudson. Yes, it's quite nice, isn’t it?”

“It's just lovely.”

In fact Mycroft's garden had developed into an oasis, an explosion of colours and odours, insects of all kinds flying around, hurrying from one flower to the other, and yes – several butterflies had already landed on Sherlock's legs over the past weeks, and he had admired their fragile beauty, sitting comfortable on his lounger, before they had risen into the air again after their little rest, eager to head for the next delicious petal.

He nodded. “It’s definitely a pleasure to be sitting out here.” He had known she was arriving as Onni had hastened inside, yapping and tail-wagging, to greet her properly. Onni loved Mrs Hudson as much as he loved Sherlock and Mycroft, and he even loved most of the people they met when Sherlock took him out for a walk or let him accompany him to buy something or visit a sight Mycroft thought he just had to see. Or, of course, to join the police at a crime scene (where he told him to sit down and not come closer to the body, and the police-officers always looked at the little dog full of suspicion and then full of astonishment as he always did what he was told – which was a lot more than could be said about the officers themselves, Lestrade had mumbled not too long ago. Of course Onni loved Lestrade, too, and even his snappish Sergeant Donovan and his completely incompetent man for the forensics, Phil Anderson. Onni loved basically everybody who was nice to him, and very unsurprisingly, almost everybody fell for his charms, even Sergeant Sally _I-Never-Smile_ Donovan.

“Is that an exciting case?” Mrs Hudson asked now, gesturing at the folder on Sherlock's thighs. She had sat down in the chair next to his, Onni to her feet.

“Well, exciting… It passes the time.” A man shooting another man because of a failed business deal. It was almost painfully dull…

“But the police couldn’t solve it?”

Sherlock snorted. “They can hardly solve a murder that happens right before their eyes…”

“That's quite discouraging – Scotland Yard being so out of their depths...”

“It's their natural state,” Sherlock assured her, and she laughed.

“They can be so grateful to have you, Sherlock!”

“I like to think so too,” he smirked.

She had no idea what he had done in his life before Mycroft had taken care of him. And of course she had no idea where Onni had come from. All she knew was that Sherlock had had some problems in his past and that he had found Onni in the shelter.

She saw Sherlock through rose-coloured glasses and since Sherlock trusted her in a way he had never expected, she would never see any of his depths. Neither would Mycroft, of course.

He had managed to blend in. For Mrs Hudson he was Mycroft's dear brother and she had taken to liking him a lot. For Lestrade he was the man who helped him out and had saved his arse about a dozen times already. Sometimes the DI tried to sneak in some questions about Sherlock's past but Sherlock was way too smart to fall for such pathetic tricks. He didn’t even try to pretend he hadn't noticed but scrutinised the man with raised eyebrows and sighed, and Lestrade would mumble something and scuttle or change the subject clumsily.

“Your brother is, too.”

“Pardon?” Sherlock eyed her curiously.

“Lucky to have you and this little sweetheart here.” She patted Onni's head and the dog immediately licked her hand, almost falling over from tail-wagging. She smiled at the little pet like everybody used to smile at him. “He must have been so alone here. When he came home, nobody was there. All he knew was work, work, work. And now you and Onni are here to keep him company and brighten up his days.”

 _And, in my case, fucking him into oblivion…_ Sherlock smiled. “Yes. I agree. But we're all lucky to be together.” Where would he be without Mycroft? Where would Onni be without him?

All in all, life was surprisingly pleasant these days.

### At The Yard

_“He's a freak!”_

_“Donovan! I don't want to hear you saying that again; I've told you before!”_

_“Yes, sir, but you know I'm damn right! What do we know about him? He's got no past, no references; he's like a ghost and equally unsettling!”_

_“Never thought you were the superstitious kind, Sergeant. And you know how helpful he is! And he doesn’t want anything for it, no money, no mentioning his involvement.”_

_“Yes, I get that. He has some weird skills and he doesn’t do it for the fame obviously. But one day he'll cross the line and murder someone himself just to prove how clever he is and that we'll never get him!”_

_“Well, we probably wouldn’t…”_

Sherlock, standing in front of DI Lestrade's office, chuckled. Eavesdropping was so rewarding! Oh, the good old Sergeant Donovan. Who would never find out how close she'd been to the truth… And of course being not mentioned in any way had been one of his conditions for agreeing to work at murder cases. He only approached a crime scene when no photographer was around. He couldn’t be cautious enough.

He pushed himself from the wall he'd been leaning against and knocked at the door, patiently waiting for Lestrade to call him in. “I've got the solution for the Garrideb case,” he said, and watched Onni sniffing at Lestrade's foot and the DI bending down to scratch his little head after greeting Sherlock. Then he beamed at the Sergeant. “Oh, how lovely to see you, Sally. Did you do something with your hair?”

Donovan stared at him and Sherlock could see how much she disliked and mistrusted him. “No,” she hissed and proceeded to leave her boss's office but stopped right next to Sherlock. “I'll leave you alone so you can brag about your cleverness.”

“Well, if my help here is not welcome anymore…” Sherlock bit his bottom lip, looking down on the folder.

“No! It is!” Lestrade cast a furious look at Donovan, which Sherlock grasped by glancing at him through his lashes. “Come, sit down, tell me! And _you_! Don't you have work to do instead of bitching around?”

Donovan shot a deadly glare at both men before she stormed off. Onni yapped after her and then sat down to scratch his ear with a hind paw.

Sherlock hid his satisfied smile and stepped from one foot to the other. “If you're sure… Don't want to cause trouble…”

“ _She's_ trouble!”

Yes. She was. Sherlock knew if she ever found out about him, she would have a field day. Well, how were the odds? Even if he stumbled into one of his former guards during a case – they were obliged to maintain secrecy about their fosterlings. They were just humans though – addicted to gossip. But of course this was hypothetical. The chances of running into one of them were extremely slim, let alone at a crime scene. But he didn’t like Donovan any more than she liked him. Given how aggressive she was, she would probably not even back away if she knew who Sherlock really was. Well, she would get to know him very well then…

“Please, tell me!”

He had forgotten about Lestrade for the moment. But now he nodded a little shyly. “Yes. Was just a bit… hurt…” Would he really buy that?

He did. “I apologise on her behalf. I'll talk to her again.”

He was really a gem, this DI. Naïve and easy to deceive, more often out of his depth than not, but still a gem, and the cases provided a very welcome distraction. So Sherlock opened the folder to explain to him what the cops had messed up a year ago in this ice-cold case that was now burning hot thanks to his deduction skills.

### The Hat

“What's that?!”

Mycroft smiled, holding out his present. “It's a hat.”

Sherlock snorted. “Well, I can see that! But what is it for? Some weird roleplay?” His eyes brightened up at the prospect.

“Well, not quite. I thought… you could wear it when you are, you know, on duty.”

Sherlock took the grey Deerstalker hat from his hand and turned it, glancing at it with a slight shake of his head. “Why? So the cops die from laughing?”

Mycroft stored his umbrella and slipped out of his coat. “No. So that if anyone walks around who… you know, knows you, won't recognise you.”

Mycroft was in fact very proud of Sherlock's success at solving murder cases. He was extremely good at it and he had solved every case he had taken care of so far. Not always soon enough to have the murderer punished; sometime the cases were a few years old and the killer had already died. But still the case could be finally closed and people could be told who had taken their daughter/ father/ friend from them.

He was well aware Sherlock had no altruistic motives. He simply liked the game, liked the distraction it provided. But the outcome was still the same. It was a very satisfying occupation for everyone involved – apart from the killers who _could_ still get caught of course.

But it was also dangerous. Someone could recognise him. A cop could talk. And Sherlock's past would reach out to him then.

During a talk with their parents - who were over the moon about Sherlock's development without knowing anything about their unbrotherly relationship of course - Mycroft had found out that nobody in Sherrinford apart from the governor had known Sherlock's name. He had always been _Number 1895_. That was as devastating as it was helpful now. And still… Sherlock's unpaid job was threatening his anonymity. Not when he worked on cold cases in their home but when he visited an actual crime scene.

Sherlock put the hat onto his unruly curls but his face was serious. “You're afraid they could find out about us.”

Onni, who was sitting next to them in the hallway, barked at the unfamiliar sight and Sherlock gave him a fond smile, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes Mycroft didn’t like at all. He had not meant to make his brother sad. Just safe.

“No. Who would? Nobody knows about my existence outside of Whitehall. And… Officially my brother is dead.”

“But you said yourself I do exist under my real name.”

That had probably been a mistake, Mycroft had to concede. He should have given Sherlock a completely new identity. But that would have raised some questions as it was something he couldn’t have done all alone. He should have found an excuse though.

“True,” he said. “But even your birthday is classified information. It should be fine.” Who had a reason to investigate if Sherlock had any siblings if they found out about him? It was all very hypothetical. “But still… wear the hat. For me. It suits you by the way.”

“Does it?” Sherlock smiled at him, which was a huge relief.

He didn’t want his brother to think he was a burden for him and a nasty secret. He _was_ a secret of course, and in many ways a dark one, but Mycroft would never want him to leave him, and Sherlock must have seen it in his eyes.

He stepped closer to him, the hat still sitting a bit lopsided on his head. “I _could_ wear it when we have sex though, too. Like right now. The mysterious detective with the funny hat, riding the shadowy string puller to a confession…”

Mycroft's throat got dry. His arms sneaked around Sherlock's waist. “What do you want me to confess, my dangerous detective with the sexy hat?”

Sherlock's grin was promising. “All your sins, brother mine.”

“ _You_ are my sin,” slipped out of Mycroft's mouth, and Sherlock's grin got even wider.

“Is that so? Well then. Let's postpone dinner and find out.”

Mycroft was not that hungry anyway. At least not for food…

*****

Mycroft had always dominated his few sex partners before Sherlock. And in fact he obviously should be the dominant partner in this relationship as well. He was seven years older, he was occupying a position of power, it was his house – but even his recently discovered preference for a bit of physical pain during sex aside, he just loved being dominated by his brother when they were at it, even when he was actually topping. It certainly made a difference that Sherlock, as inexperienced as he had gone into this relationship, was hardly your usual kind of submissive lover and was every shade of dangerous above all. In any way Mycroft liked to have Sherlock lead the way and he followed him wherever he led him. So far it had only led him to mind-blowing orgasms after all.

And having Sherlock straddling his lap and taking him inside after a very brief preparation was something he would never get tired of experiencing. And with his new hat, Sherlock looked so foreign and posh and in charge – Mycroft melted away under him.

It was a sight to murder for, he thought fleetingly just to blush at once. But to watch Sherlock's muscles work under the smooth skin of his torso, arms and thighs was mouth-watering. Sherlock looked down on him, never breaking eye-contact, a smirk on his beautiful mouth, while he was riding him harder and harder, his hot tightness driving Mycroft mad.

Eventually he moved his upper body so they were almost face to face, his arms tight around Sherlock's waist, and he met his relentless rhythm, both men panting severely now, and then Sherlock surprised him with falling backwards, forcing him to follow him with a strength that caught Mycroft off guard, and then he found himself on top of Sherlock, being urged to hammer into him by two heels kicking his arse, and he obeyed and found himself fucking his brother harder than he had ever done before, with Sherlock's eyes wide, his mouth forming an 'O' that cried for being kissed, the hat having fallen over the edge of the bed and onto the floor, and they both came with deep groans, pawing at one another, and Mycroft let himself drop onto Sherlock, enjoying the lean but impressively strong arms around him.

They stayed like this for a long while until Sherlock poked his side. “We need a shower and our dinner, oh shagged-to-death brother of mine.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I like you with the hat,” he mumbled then and kissed his cheek.

“Do you now. Well, then I'll have to wear it.”

“Thank you.”

“No, Mycie. Thank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

### Work Inconveniencies

“Oh,” Lady Elizabeth Smallwood made, her hand reaching to her heart. “You've startled me.”

“Apologies,” Mycroft said. They had almost crashed together when the lady had stormed out of her office, while Mycroft had just been approaching her door. “I'm here to discuss the plan for Lagos with you.”

“Not now.”

She looked different, Mycroft noticed. Her eyes were sparkling in a certain way, her makeup was more colourful than usual, her cheeks exceptionally rosy and not just from the makeup, and she had made a special effort with her hair. _Freshly cut and coloured_. She looked rather tired but from her appearance it was clear her sleepless nights weren’t a result of worrying about problems. A new lover, obviously. It was sort of a relief as it would spare him any unwelcome advances, at least for the time it would last. Her extramarital affairs never lasted very long… “I've mailed you several times,” he reprimanded her. “You didn’t reply.”

“I'll get back to you in about two hours, all right?”

“Actually _you_ came to _me_ concerning that matter!” he reminded her. That had been three days ago and it had taken him some time to focus on the matter. When she had asked him for this favour, she had behaved completely normal so this affair was obviously very new. And she was about to meet him now, whoever he was.

 “I know,” she hissed. “Two hours won't make that much of a difference.”

“Probably not,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “You know where to find me if you feel like concentrating on your job.”

Her jaw tightened and her eyes shot a glare at him but since they both knew he was right and since she had said something very similar to him not too long ago, she didn’t answer anything.

Mycroft returned to his office to do some of his own work and thought she would probably show up later that day, pretending nothing had happened.

He was right, and he forgot about her state when she left his office after discussing her matter with him, being in a splendid mood, and he hadn't said a word about her suddenly rather crumpled dress and hadn't shuddered too obviously.

*****

“Will you come?”

“Hm?” Sherlock turned around to Lestrade, the hat almost sliding off his head. They were leaving the Yard after discussing a couple of cold cases; Lestrade had said he just couldn’t sit in the office for any longer today. Sherlock had missed his chattering though as he had been thinking about his brother.

Lestrade grinned, clearly at the hat, and Sherlock grimaced. “Have a beer with me?” the DI repeated his question Sherlock hadn't heard the first time.

“Oh. No, thanks.”

“But you must. I don't want to drink all alone.”

“You can always take Anderson and Donovan with you.”

Now Lestrade grimaced. “They're too busy shagging each other's brains out.”

Sherlock was surprised he had noticed the secret relationship between his snarky sergeant and the married forensics man. “That can't take them very long though,” he said, and Lestrade laughed out loud.

Sherlock grinned and realised that the DI was really a pleasant man to be around. And he seemed to genuinely like him even though Sherlock always avoided talking about himself.

What would he say if he knew about Sherlock's past in a prison for criminal children and young adults? Or the very recent past… Sherlock looked down on Onni, who was giving him a look full of adoration that made it impossible not to smile at him. Lestrade, the decent man, the defender of law and order… He would probably not like him that much anymore…

“Hey!” Lestrade shouted all at once, gesturing impatiently at someone on Sherlock's left.

Sherlock turned to look at the object of his anger and saw a man with one hand raised, and then there was a flash and he lifted his hand to cover his face but it was too late. The young man, clearly a reporter, had made a picture of them both, and now he hurried away to a car, and before either of them could react, he was gone.

“Dammit.”

Sherlock look at the DI. “That was because of me,” he concluded.

“Yeah. I got some phone calls from two journalists who had heard that I'm working with someone outside the Yard.” He sighed. “It's hard to keep that a secret for good, Sherlock.”

“You should have told me!” And _he_ should have considered this possibility…

Lestrade nodded and looked very guilty. “I'm sorry. But I didn’t want to lose your help. Hey, they don't know anything about you.”

But Sherlock knew someone would give them his name, if that hadn't already happened. And now they had a picture of him; not a very good one thanks to the hat that would have covered about half of his face. But he didn’t like that one bit… And neither would Mycie…

### Revelation

“What's up, John?” Mary Watson put the teapot onto the kitchen table and sat down opposite of her husband. “Why do you look so happy?”

Doctor John Watson, the leading psychologist of Sherrinford, tapped onto the newspaper. “This is the one I told you about. The one who was let out as he'd made a lot of progress. I said he would be fine outside. And dammit, I was right!”

Mary looked at the picture. A grey-haired man in a cheap suit, walking next to a younger man with a lopsided hat, both glaring at the camera. The older man looked like a cop, and yes, here they said he was DI Greg Lestrade.

And the other one… “Sherlock Holmes. What an interesting name! And his face is very unique.” There wasn't a lot of it visible but she could make out very high, sharp cheekbones, a full mouth with an extraordinary cupid bow and piercing eyes.

“Yep. He's a handsome brat. Would recognise him with even less being visible of him. He helps the police now! That's awesome!”

Mary patted his arm. “And you've helped him getting there!”

John shrugged modestly. “Well, just talked to him. He's such a bright guy. Never met anyone like him there. It was a waste to keep him locked up.”

“But he was probably there for a reason…” John usually never talked about his clients. He wasn't allowed to, not even with his wife.

“Yeah, sure. He had some problems…” John shook his head. “I didn’t even know his name. Just a number, that's all they are,” he added pensively. “I'm glad one of them could be healed.”

Mary looked at the eyes of the young man on the photo. They were looking surprised, but there was an underlying coldness to them. She thought that he might help the police now but she wouldn’t bet he had become your nice boy next door… “He was special to you,” she stated.

“Yeah, guess so. He was just… so interesting…” There was something in his voice that told her that he had been drawn to this guy.

She eyed him curiously. “You liked him,” she said then with a suggestive smirk, and her husband snorted.

“You know I'm not gay! He was just… special. Quite a few of them are, of course, but he… So much potential. Well, why don't we go for a little walk after breakfast? It's rather pretty out there and I can't spend my day off sitting in my office.”

“Sure. We'll do that and we'll have a nice day.” And Mary wondered how this very special man thought about his picture in the newspaper… And if John might have also recognised his very prominent bottom… The thought only made her grin, not feeling jealous in the least. Something told her this man wouldn’t be interested in any romantic way in her sweet, serious, common husband…

*****

“It's all right, Sherlock. You know nobody in Sherrinford knew your real name apart from the governor, and your face is hardly recognisable.” Mycroft had been trying to calm Sherlock down since he had discovered the picture in the papers. Of course they had expected it but it had been a shock nonetheless, particularly for Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes dark with anger. “I think the people I was around there _can_ recognise me, and then they do have my name now. And there might be more… It's not safe to go on doing that.”

“Well, you should talk to Lestrade, and let him make sure there won't be any more pictures. And you know the doctors and guards of Sherrinford have to keep silent about the… prisoners.”

“If they smell enough money, they will talk. And Lestrade will never want to work with me again if he knows,” Sherlock said darkly. “Better if I end it right here and now.”

“But then he'll know that you've got something to hide.”

“He should know that anyway…”

“True, but so far he doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t seem to bother. He knows how good you are.”

Sherlock huffed and didn’t answer. Mycroft didn’t like his dark mood not one bit but he understood it of course.

“Come, eat your breakfast,” he softly said.

“I should find this photographer,” Sherlock mumbled.

“No! You're going to leave him alone!” His voice was unpleasantly shrill.

Sherlock glared at him. “I wasn't going to _kill_ him!” he yelled. And then he shrugged. “Or perhaps I was…” he added in a calmer tone.

“It's not the right way to deal with this.”

Sherlock immediately flared again. “And what _is_ the right way? Ignore it and hope nobody will come and say, _'hey, I know this guy, he killed a few people'_? Hope that nobody from your workspace will think, _'Holmes… Couldn’t they be related?'_ ”

“Holmes is not such a rare name, Sherlock. And even if they do… Nobody knows you're living here with me. Or that you're my brother.” There were no relatives left who knew about Sherlock. Only their parents, and they would definitely not give anything away. “And even if they did, they wouldn’t know how close we are.”

“But it could all come out. Even if they just find out we're brothers. With my past… It would be a blow to your reputation. And what then? I can't… I can't…” Sherlock's voice broke, and Mycroft hurried to put his arm around him. “I can't lose you, Mycie.”

It took his breath away. Never before had Sherlock said something that touching to him. And he was sure that this time Sherlock was serious.

He pulled him close. “You're not going to lose me, Lock. Not ever.”

“You can't guarantee that,” Sherlock mumbled, his voice dark and hopeless.

“I can.” Mycroft wished he could have a nice talk with the owner of this sodding newspaper. But of course they still had freedom of the press, and every intervention from his side would only draw exactly the attention to them that they wanted to avoid. But one thing was for sure: he wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to come between them. “Nothing will happen, Sherlock. Go on doing your job, perhaps avoid the crime scenes for a while, let Lestrade mail you the files.”

“Yeah… Being locked up again…” Sherlock had got used to spending time at the Yard, visiting crime scenes. Finally something that really interested him and lured him out of the safety of their house.

In this moment Mycroft wanted to kill this sodding photographer himself…

Sherlock sensed it and kissed his cheek with a hint of a smile on his lips. “You've got to go to work. I'll be fine.”

“I'll go later. My first meeting is only in three hours. I can stay for a while longer.”

“And what will we do?”

“Have a very good time…”

*****

A young man with red hair almost choked from laughing when he read the newspaper this morning. That was the joke of the century! This man was Number 1895; he would have sworn on his mother's grave, and she wasn't even dead! These cheekbones! This strange face! He would have recognised him everywhere. The man who had killed one of his colleagues right next to him, and had done the same two times before he had started working as a guard in Creepy Sherrinford, was solving cases for the police now? For free above all?!

He remembered how he had guided this tasty, dark-haired visitor to him. How he had teased the obviously important man with 1895's dangerousness. This man had said he was his brother, hadn't he?

Either this serious young man had worked wonders with his lunatic of a little brother, or he was the biggest idiot in history, and so had to be this DI Lestrade, who certainly had no idea about the past of his new best friend.

Well, the red-headed guard wouldn’t tell him. He couldn’t, due to his contract, and he wouldn’t if he could. If 1895, or Sherlock, was so smart to fool even the elite of the police in this country, he certainly deserved his chance. And if he killed again, well, _he_ hadn't let him out, had he?

He chuckled to himself and drank up his coffee. 1895 and police work. Sounded like Richard Speck becoming a hospital chaplain… The world had become a truly crazy place…

*****

Sherlock's phone rang when Mycroft was just taking off the suit he had only put on half an hour ago. Of course he had work to do before his meeting. Of course he didn’t actually have the time to stay with Sherlock now. But still he would. Nothing really bad had happened but Sherlock had just a few months ago been released from a prison he had spent his entire life in, and to be exposed to the public with his name (and they had both rather failed at that; Sherlock should have told Lestrade a wrong name or none at all, and Mycroft should have made sure Sherlock's name disappeared from all archives completely, well, it was too late for that now) must make him feel trapped and uncomfortable, and if Mycroft could be there for him for a while longer and assure him they were fine, he would.

“It's Lestrade,” Sherlock said, looking at the phone display.

That wasn’t actually a surprise. Mycroft was quite sure nobody except for the DI and himself even had Sherlock's number… “Go answer him. You know what he wants.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock mumbled darkly and took the call while Mycroft continued to undress.

He listened to Sherlock reacting rather sullenly to Lestrade's obvious apologies – because somebody from the Yard had to have given Sherlock's name away, probably even this Donovan type who disliked Sherlock so much, or her not-so-secret lover. He just hoped Sherlock would not get back at them but he assumed even in his rage and depression about these developments his brother was well aware that police people were off limits…

Scratching his head in an impatient gesture, Sherlock then told Lestrade to mail him everything he was supposed to look at for the foreseeable future as he wouldn’t go to the Met or any crime scene after this debacle anymore. Apparently Lestrade then asked the inevitable question if he could come to his place instead, which Sherlock immediately declared to be impossible.

His face was dark and serious, and Mycroft could feel something like a premonition. Something bad would raise its head after this picture had appeared. It was stupid of course; there was no such thing as premonitions and so far nobody knew about Sherlock's real identity and nobody would. The article had just said a mysterious man of this name and these looks was helping the police with astonishing abilities. Nobody knew where Sherlock had come from or where he lived. Nobody could know they were brothers who lived in an incestuous relationship. Nobody ever would. And still… Mycroft had a bad feeling and so had Sherlock, without a doubt.

Finally Sherlock got rid of the DI and put his phone onto the nightstand. Mycroft was naked except for his boxer briefs now. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for sex but then Sherlock hastily undressed as well, and the sight of smooth skin, a well-toned stomach and very appetizing thighs was enough to get Mycroft aroused against all odds before Sherlock was even completely naked.

Sherlock looked down at the bulge in his underwear and smiled while taking off his own pants. “Well then. Let's make the best of this unplanned morning together, and fuck them all.”

And a moment later they were in each other's arms.

*****

Mycroft realised very quickly that his plan wouldn’t work out. He had wanted to shower his brother with kisses and touches and then take him in a gentler way than usual to show him how much he meant to him and that he wouldn’t allow their relationship to be destroyed, no matter what.

Instead he was roughly pushed onto his stomach and then Sherlock was all over him, his mouth working its way down his spine to his arse; his cheeks were spread none too gently and a wet tongue worked him open very efficiently, added by two long violinist's fingers that were to be followed by something wider and longer.

He was fine with this solution too, of course. If Sherlock needed to claim him and mount him, reassuring himself that Mycroft was his and wouldn't go away, it was fine with him. Still he gasped when Sherlock entered him, not without care and after applying a generous amount of lubrication but a bit too rushed nonetheless.

Sherlock wasn't too far gone in his arousal or frustration about the recent developments in his life to not still at once to give him time to adjust to the familiar but always challenging intrusion.

“It's all right,” Mycroft said after a few moments of feeling Sherlock's hot breath against his neck but no movement from his brother. “Go on.”

Sherlock kissed his ear and then started to thrust into him in a steady rhythm, the pace increasing every thirty seconds until the noise of damp skin clashing on damp skin was in unison with their hoarse groans.

His brother's weight was pressing him into the mattress and his neck was bent at a rather painful angle but Mycroft enjoyed their encounter nevertheless, arousal building up steadily as Sherlock had mastered pushing against his prostate gland with every stroke.

All thoughts about this threatening article and the work he should be doing now were pushed into the furthest back of his mind by Sherlock relentlessly fucking him, and he groaned when Sherlock's teeth sank into his shoulder after several minutes of a deliciously merciless pace. But he knew his brother wouldn’t bite hard enough to leave a mark that would stay for longer than a few minutes, and wasn’t it bloody sad that they had to be so careful and so discreet about their relationship? And another thought shot through his mind when he eventually started soaking the linen with his seed – _'Does he love me? Does he love me in any way as much as I love him?'_ and then all thinking finally left him for a sweet, long moment of peace and bliss.

Sherlock moaned against his ear when he came a few seconds later, releasing his hot semen deep inside his body, and then he collapsed right onto him, pressing him even further against the bed and Mycroft only regretted that this position made it impossible for him to hold his brother in his arms. All he could do was awkwardly turning his arms to clumsily pat Sherlock's sides.

And then Sherlock mumbled into his ear, “Promise?”

Mycroft didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Promised, little brother.”

Everything would be all right.

### Interrogation

_“Hello!”_

Just a part of his dream, Philip Anderson vaguely thought when he stirred up in his sleep, turning around to snuggle his face into the pillows.

_“Wake up!”_

The head of New Scotland Yard's forensics department shot up in his bed, his heart hammering in his chest. “What?! Who… You! What do you want?! How did you get in?” He could see the person that was sitting on a chair next to his bed only very vaguely but that was enough.

“Ah, so many questions. I guess we can skip the 'Who'-question, right? And how did I get in? Please. You should really overthink your security…”

“What do you want from me?”

“Not rape you, I can assure you. Your wife's still at her parents'?”

His heartrate slowly decreased. “Yes. How do you… Never mind… Go!”

“Oh, we're just having such a nice chat.”

“It's 3am!”

“Best time for a friendly conversation…” The man moved and suddenly Philip was grabbed at his collar and Phil was staring into these disturbing eyes that could change the colour without any plausible reason. He couldn’t see them clearly now of course but he could sense the rage in them.

“Please!” he croaked, his heartrate returning to an alarming speed.

“Did you give my name to this sodding newspaper?” Sherlock hissed with non-concealed wrath in his deep voice.

“No! I swear I didn’t!”

“Then your _girlfriend_ , Donovan?”

“No! We've talked it about it when Greg told us you won't come to the crime scenes anymore because of that. He was so pissed off. Neither of us did it!”

“Why should I believe you?” Sherlock rumbled, his breath hot against Philip's face.

“We wouldn’t piss off Lestrade! We know how much he values your help!”

“Please. I've heard Sally calling me a freak you can't trust when they were alone.”

“Yes. That's her name for you. But after that she said Lestrade's so… crazy for you that she had to be careful in his presence. I know Sally. She said she didn’t do it, even when we were alone. She didn’t!”

He sighed in relief when Sherlock released him from his grip and let him drop against the backrest of the bed.

“Who then?” Sherlock mumbled, probably more to himself.

“Could have been just anyone. Lestrade wants to keep your help a secret but that just makes people talk. Every young officer can have told another one outside of our division. The photographers. Someone in the morgue.”

“Yeah… Guess that's right.”

“Will you… Will you come back?”

“Why, are you missing me?”

Philip sighed. “I know you think I'm an idiot and compared to you I am. Everybody is.”

A smile appeared on Sherlock's face. “True.”

“You are fascinating…”

“Pardon?”

“You know you are. Not only because you're so smart. You are… like a… panther. Always ready to jump. You just did…”

“If I had really jumped, Anderson, you wouldn’t be talking anymore.”

Philip could hear him close his mouth with an audible noise after this statement as if he was thinking he had said too much. The forensics expert scratched his head. “I know. You are dangerous.”

Sherlock snorted. “You say that as if it was a good thing.”

“You're on _our_ side after all. The side of the angels even though you're probably not exactly an angel yourself… Doesn’t matter to me. Doesn't matter to Lestrade. You've solved so many cases. So many murderers were caught because of your deductions. That's a bloody good thing if you ask me.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. “What about Donovan? She hates me.”

“Nah, she doesn’t. She admires you like the rest of us. She just thinks your dark side will take over eventually and you will cross the line.”

“And you don't think that?”

“No. I think you're pretty cool. I'm not even afraid of you, showing up in my house in the middle of the night.” He had been. Just a bit. Okay, very much. But he wasn’t anymore.

“That's very brave indeed. But you know what they say about bravery?”

“No. What?”

“It's the kindest word for stupidity.”

Now Anderson snorted. “I'm stupid all right. But I do know my job even though I might jump to wrong conclusions sometimes when it's not about the evidence.”

“ _Sometimes_? With what you conclude all the time you lower the IQ of the whole street!”

Philip could hear the grin in Sherlock's voice and chuckled. “That was mean!”

“I know.” Sherlock got up. “Well, sorry for breaking into your house, I suppose.”

“You do believe me then?”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t be able to lie to me that convincingly.”

“Too stupid for that, I know…” His eyes had got used to the dark and he could see Sherlock's features better now. He looked rather relaxed.

“What about your wife? Found out about Donovan?”

“Yes… Guess she won't come back…”

“So you love her, Sally?” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe why.

“Yes. She's great. You just see her bitchy outside. But inside…”

“I really don't want to hear anything about Donovan's _insides_ , Anderson…”

They both chuckled and Anderson thought that he had never had such a good time with someone at 3am. Someone he wasn’t having sex with, that is. “Will you come back?” he repeated his question from a few minutes ago.

“Don't know. For the time being, I'll try to help out by reading files and looking at pictures of the crime scenes.”

What was he hiding? Why did his identity have to be such a secret? One day he had considered following Sherlock to where he lived but he had luckily dismissed this idea quickly again. He wasn't a spy after all. Sherlock would have caught him and then… But he still wanted to know what he was hiding…

“I know what you're thinking,” Sherlock said sharply. “Forget it. It's my business and my business alone.”

“Sorry! I know it is. But… If you need help…”

Sherlock smiled. “No, thanks. It's all good. As long as you all leave me alone.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Well, we'll see if there's a problem.”

“But if there is, _I_ won't be the source! And neither will be Sally. And Lestrade… He admires the ground you're walking on.”

“You don't mean he…” Sherlock broke off but there wasn't much room for misinterpretation.

“Not sure, honestly. He definitely has some sort of crush on you…” So did he, didn’t he? Not that he would tell Sherlock… It wasn’t anything sexual. Sherlock was clearly gay but _he_ wasn’t. And still he was drawn to this man, to his astonishing personality, his charisma. He doubted that many people were able to resist his charms. And perhaps not even Sally. She protested a bit too much…

“God forbid.”

“Probably it's more a father-son-feeling.”

“He's not old enough to be my father.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean he can't have fatherly feelings.” Lestrade felt definitely strangely protective towards Sherlock. Philip was rather sure this man didn’t need anyone to protect him from anything or anyone.

“Hm. I trust your judgement there, Anderson.”

“Philip.”

“Whatever. Well, I'll leave you to your sleep now so you can do the best of work tomorrow!”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Holmes.”

“Quoting meaningless nonsense is lower, believe me.” But Sherlock smiled when he said that, Philip could hear it. “Goodnight then. And this conversation should stay between the two of us.”

“Sure. No word to no-one. Goodnight, Sherlock. I really hope you'll come back.”

“So do I. It's so much fun to wind Sally up.”

They both laughed again and then Sherlock disappeared into the night. Anderson lay back into the pillows and thought that he wouldn’t want to miss out for the world on knowing this man. He was just bloody special.

*****

It was almost 4am when Sherlock crawled into Mycroft's bed again after greeting Onni ,who had heard him coming through the back door and given him a sleepy tail-wagging and a hand-lick. Sherlock had cuddled with him for a moment before sending him back to his basket and then he had walked upstairs. His brother had not woken up, not surprisingly after a hard day at work, more sex with Sherlock and the two stiff whiskeys Sherlock had encouraged him to drink afterwards.

Sherlock snuggled up against his brother's shoulder, and Mycroft mumbled something in his sleep and turned his face to him.

“It's all right,” Sherlock whispered soothingly. He kept still while Mycroft returned to sleeping peacefully, but it took him a rather long time to follow him into dreamland.

Something was coming. And he had no idea from which direction and neither did he know what to do against it. But one thing was sure: he wouldn’t let anyone take his new life from him again. A life with work he enjoyed, a dog he adored, people who admired and even liked him, a house he considered his home, and above all the man he shared his bed and his life with. He had never known he needed all this but now that he had it, they would destroy it only over his dead body. Or rather theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard Speck was a mass murderer who killed young nurses. Disgusting man!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messing with the Holmes boys? Hm...

### Brotherly Bliss

“Hello, dear.”

“Hi, Mycie.”

Mycroft embraced his brother and nuzzled his face against his neck. And realised that it was hotter than it should be. “You've got some rather nasty sunburn there.”

Sherlock reached up to his neck and grimaced. “Yeah. Been sitting in the garden for a bit too long, trying to make sense of this.”

Sherlock had met Lestrade the day before. Like two conspirators they had been sitting in the DI's car, exchanging folders and notes and details that could be better explained from eye to eye. After just staring at the files for three days, it must have been a welcome distraction for Sherlock.

The day after this sodding picture had been published, there had been another small article about Sherlock in another newspaper and then they had left him alone again. But neither of them was an idiot. They knew it could come up anytime again if someone spoke with the press. So far nobody seemed to have done it. But still Sherlock kept away from the Yard and didn’t get a look at the crime scenes other than by video file. And still he had solved most of the cases very quickly.

“How are the cold cases doing?” Mycroft asked him, rubbing his back.

“Fine. Solved two more. The police are exceptionally blind sometimes…”

“Nothing new under the sun then. Speaking of sun… Let's get you some balm for your neck.”

Sherlock smiled. “You could cool it with your tongue.”

“I doubt that will be very helpful.”

“Hm, all right. Then you could put it elsewhere and cool some burns there…”

“I will with pleasure. But first…”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Mycroft smiled and carded a hand through his curls. “And I've brought dinner as agreed. I bet you haven't eaten much today.” When Sherlock was working on his cases, he forgot the time and the needs of his body. And Mrs Hudson hadn't been there today to remind him of eating something.

“Not really. But Onni and I had a long walk together.”

Mycroft looked down on the little dog that was sitting next to them, looking from one man to the other with this melting look. He bent down to stroke over the soft head. “That's good. But you have to be even hungrier then. Come, dear, let's balm you up and get you fed.”

Onni barked.

“Yes, you too.”

*****

“How… How was your day?”

“Gd.”

“Oh, good. Oh, _good_! How's the old hag doing, Smallwood?”

“Stl sging shmne an…” Mycroft lifted his head and licked his lips. “I can't answer you when I'm doing this, Sherlock. Am I really so bad at it that you prefer talking about _Lady Smallwood_?”

Sherlock laughed. “Not at all. Sorry. Go back to work, please.”

“I hope you don't mean the office.”

Sherlock laughed even louder, and Mycroft thought it was the best sound on earth. Even better than listening to Sherlock's moans while he was rimming him or sucking his dick or taking him or…

“No, Mycie. Lick my hole,” he demanded bluntly. He was rarely so crude.

Mycroft swallowed and his cock, which had been throbbing already due to his pleasurable efforts, got even harder.

Sherlock didn’t miss it. “Hm, like it when I'm talking dirty? Come on then, lick me out, shove your tongue up my arse.”

“That's nasty…”

Sherlock chuckled. “You're full of surprises, brother. You like having your arse slapped. You like me saying nasty things. We could combine it…”

They had done a bit of further exploration of Mycroft's rather submissive streak and found out that Mycroft only reacted positively to rather tame infliction of pain. When Sherlock had accidentally bitten his nipple too hard, it had caused an immediate loss of erection. Sherlock had soothed the poor nub with his wet tongue and tiny kisses and had made up thoroughly for his mishap and the encounter had ended very pleasantly for both of them.

Much more often than this, they had sex in the more classic ways. But if Sherlock wanted to go down that path again tonight, Mycroft wouldn’t mind it. “Combine how?”

“Good that you're asking!”

 *****

It was probably the most uncomfortable position Mycroft had ever been in, and still it was very exciting in a pretty humiliating way. Sherlock had arranged him quickly – lying on his back, his arms under his thighs so he was holding his legs up and his arse and genitals were fully on display. Sherlock was hovering above him, straddling his head, and he was licking his hole indeed while Sherlock was heartily slapping his exposed arse and uttering rather scandalous sentences.

“Look at you, wanton as you are, showing your hole to me, all stretched and wide…”

Sherlock rubbed at said hole and Mycroft's eyes were rolling in pleasure. His cock was unbearably hard due to Sherlock's taste, the slightly stinging blows and now this fabulous finger in his hole.

“Oh, I wish you could see how my finger disappears in you, oh, _damn_ …”

Mycroft smiled in a small triumph at Sherlock's obvious arousal. He _was_ very good at licking him after all…

But Sherlock went on talking and delivered another slap. “Your arse is all red and needy and I want to lick you too, taste you on my tongue, have you screaming and wiggling and begging for me to fuck you to pieces.”

Mycroft groaned and his tongue shot into Sherlock in the same moment as his come shot out of his untouched cock, splashing all over his stomach.

Sherlock chuckled in delight and bent down to lick the mess off, and Mycroft slumped in the pillows, panting and feeling boneless and debauched.

A moment later his brother was lying on top of him, his hard cock rubbing over his soiled groin, searching friction, and Mycroft grabbed his arse, spread his cheeks and worked two fingers into him, and he had been invading his passage only for a few seconds when Sherlock cried out and showered him with his own semen, collapsing on him in a way that made it almost impossible to breathe.

Mycroft couldn’t have cared less. He pulled Sherlock even closer and stroked his back, avoiding touching the reddened skin of his neck that he had treated with lotion carefully before dinner.

“Your fingers got me,” Sherlock mumbled in between kissing his throat.

“You play me even better than your violin,” Mycroft retorted, and Sherlock snickered.

“We're a great team.”

“The best.” Mycroft closed his eyes and he drifted off quickly, vaguely noticing that Sherlock rolled off of him and carefully cleaned him up with a wet wipe and then snuggled against him to join him in a well-deserved nap.

### Car Conversation

Mycroft had had a very unpleasant day. The PM had wrecked his nerve with his incompetence worse than ever, a meeting with the ambassador of Romania had escalated thanks to the Foreign Secretary, and Lady Smallwood had been in a rotten mood, looking haunted and depressed, barely able to bring out a word. Clearly her affair had ended, and had ended nastily, but still Mycroft was surprised about the extent of the effect it had on her. He had seen her grumpy and pissed off after a split but never in such a condition. But then, he wasn’t exactly an expert in failed relationships as he'd never had one before Sherlock, and a failed relationship besides a wrecked marriage furthermore.

He was glad to be able to escape this madhouse for the day, a bit earlier than usual so his car wouldn’t be quite ready. He pulled out his phone to call the driver when he had almost reached the pavement, and then saw a black limousine stopping in front of him. With a sigh of relief, he walked towards it, looking forward to be brought home to his man and his dog and the still breathtakingly wonderful peace this arrangement was giving him. He fumbled with his umbrella and only when the tinted window of the back seat was pulled down he realised that this was not his car.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes,” a smooth voice with a strong Scandinavian accent greeted him.

Mycroft had stopped dead and stared at the nearly bald man with the big glasses, who was smiling innocently at him.

It wasn’t as if his existence was a total secret. He did meet people outside of his direct work space if it was inevitable even though he avoided any parties and gatherings; not only because he hated noise and, well, people, but also because he wanted to stay as anonymous as possible. It even helped his reputation as a frightening, ice-cold machine. Mycroft liked to be the Iceman.

And he hadn't seen this man with the large blue eyes and the blond beard in his life and still he knew who Mycroft was.

“Waiting for your car, Mr Holmes?” the man said in a friendly tone. “I can give you a ride.”

Mycroft didn’t like his voice. He didn’t like this situation. And he didn’t like this man. “No, thank you,” he said. “My car will be here shortly. And if not there's still the Tube.”

“Oh, a man like you, so important and feared, can't take the Tube. That's a disgrace. Come on, get into the car. It's supposed to start raining soon.” Mycroft silently raised his umbrella, and the man chuckled. “I promise I won't bite you.”

Mycroft had no intention to let any stranger know where he lived. “I'm fine. Good evening, sir.”

“Get into the car, Mr Holmes. We need to talk.” The friendliness had disappeared from the man's voice. His eyes were as cold as Mycroft's.

“Do we now.”

“Just a quick drive around the block. I won't keep you for long. But we have some interesting topics to discuss. Your brother, for example.”

Mycroft froze but he didn’t so much as flinch. “I don't have a brother. Who are you?”

“Oh, forgive me! My name is Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

*****

The car started to drive as soon as Mycroft had closed the door behind him. His blood was boiling but he kept a mask of ice even though he had the strong feeling it didn’t help a bit.

“Your name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said while fastening the seatbelt. He didn’t want to be in this car. But what choice did he have?

Magnussen smiled, looking as friendly as in the beginning. “Oh, I didn’t expect that. You have no reason to have heard about me. But you see I know a lot about you.”

“I doubt that very much.” He glanced at the black privacy screen that separated them from the driver he had not seen anything from.

“Don't worry. My driver is deaf.”

“I hope he isn’t also blind…”

Magnussen laughed with genuine amusement. “Oh, nobody has told me how funny you are! It's really a pleasure to meet you!” He beamed at Mycroft, who kept a completely straight face. It only seemed to amuse him and his tone was light when he continued to speak. “I wasn’t sure if he was really your brother until I saw your face when I mentioned him.”

Mycroft was sure he hadn't shown any concern and Magnussen nodded.

“It was hardly visible, your reaction, but it was there. And of course you denied it but we both know it's true. Oh, you were hard to crack. But I have my methods. I found out the name of your parents and that there had been a second son who had died at a very young age. There were also tales about a fire in your family's home.”

He couldn’t know that! Who had talked? Well, nobody. Nobody knew, except for Sherlock himself and their parents, and he could rule them all out. Mycroft's head was spinning. Nothing had prepared him for this conversation. He felt trapped. Doomed. And in a completely different way than he had felt with Sherlock in the beginning. There was no happy ending waiting this time…

Magnussen clapped his hands together. “You seemed to be untouchable. No vices I was able to learn about, just hard work, no fun, no illegal activities, well at least none that wouldn’t have been covered by your high position. And then, what a lucky coincidence! I saw this young man with the same name as your allegedly dead brother in the newspaper! There is not really a family likeness, as far as I can say after looking at this rather bad picture but this name? It can't exist twice.”

“What do you want?”

“Ah, this question. It always comes up. I don't want anything. But I guess you don't want to have anyone know that your brother is still alive, and I guess he's living with you? He hasn't rented a flat or a house, and neither has he bought one. He could live with someone else but… I'm sure he is living with you. And you're keeping it a secret. Hm. Why ever? And he didn’t look pleased at all about having his picture taken. Wonder what he did before helping out the police? Which he does admirably well, I learnt. Where was he? I have no idea. But I'm sure he means a lot to you. You're taking care of him, making sure nobody can find out anything about him. Perhaps it would have been smarter to erase his official existence completely, but that might have raised questions, right? And why he told the police his real name… I can only guess.”

“Your fairy tales are very interesting, Mr Magnussen, but why should I bother?”

The man looked even pleased. “Oh, here is the Iceman again! You've got enemies, Mr Holmes. I don't know them but a man with so much power? You must have. And they would love to know about your one weakness. And I wonder how far this weakness goes? You are supposed to be a lonely man, someone who can't endure people around him. Seems your attractive young brother has delivered you from this loneliness. How your colleagues would think about that, I wonder? And your old parents?” His tone got more suggestive with every word.

Mycroft's throat had gone completely dry. He cleared it before he spoke again. “If you want to blackmail me, you'll have to tell me what you want.”

“Oh, blackmail! What an ugly word! We're simply having a nice conversation and I perhaps gave you something to think about. That's all. There are no bugs in this car, nobody is listening to us. It's all completely harmless.”

Mycroft snorted. “Yes, I believe you.”

Magnussen smiled and Mycroft would have loved to smack this smug smile from his face. “Perhaps there will be a time when you can do something for me. Just perhaps. Perhaps it will never come. But it's good to know someone in such high government ranks. Well, one or two people…”

And Mycroft finally understood where the man had got his name from. That didn’t explain how he had found out about his parents and that he had a brother but was that really important? His instinct told him that this man wasn't part of a criminal organisation. He wasn’t in need of money. He was simply doing this for fun.

The car stopped and Mycroft saw that they had ended their little journey where it had begun – in front of the Cabinet Office.

“I wish you a very nice evening, Mr  Holmes. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“What is your occupation, Mr Magnussen?” Mycroft spat out the man's name.

“Oh, I'm just a man of private means. My father was a very rich man. Owned a newspaper. Ghastly business, isn’t it? I sold it as soon as he had passed away. I live my life, happily alone, just like you did. And sometimes I like to have nice conversations with interesting people. It takes some rather… unpleasant means to get there sometimes but well. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, they say, don't they?”

“Are you not afraid someone could get back at you?” Mycroft couldn’t refrain from asking.

“Hm, yes. There were attempts. But I might look like a spindly, weak bookworm but I know how to handle an attack.”

 _Do you now?_ Mycroft opened the door. “I'd say it was a pleasure to meet you but that would be a lie.”

“Oh, you're hurting my feelings!” Magnussen said, clutching his heart, grinning at him.

“I bet you're used to that,” Mycroft retorted coldly while sliding out of the car and then he slammed the door.

### Explanations

Mycroft tried to calm himself down before he knocked at the door. And when the assistant called him in, he plastered a smile onto his face.

“Good evening, Miss Harrington. Is she still there?”

“Oh yes, sir. Just a moment.” She beamed at him and he heard her asking, “Lady Smallwood? Mr Holmes is here to see you.”

And half a minute later, Mycroft entered the office of the head of the MI6. He had asked his driver, who had just arrived after Magnussen had driven off, to wait for another few minutes as _this_ could not wait.

She didn’t look like the head of the MI6 today. She looked like a beaten woman, looking up to him from her chair out of reddened eyes. “He talked to you,” she said in a flat tone.

“Oh yes. How could you?!”

“Sit down, Mycroft.”

He didn’t even flinch at the unwelcome usage of his first name and let himself drop onto the visitor's chair. “You told him about me.”

“I didn’t know!” She gave him a look full of guilt and desperation. “He was so charming and tender and…”

“I really don't want to hear anything about your nasty affairs! I thought you were smarter than to give information about your colleagues to a stranger! What else have you told him? Secrets about operations and weapons?” They could be talking about high treason after all.

“No! I swear I didn’t.” Her eyes were wet now, but he didn’t feel any compassion. “It was just harmless chatter.”

“Yes, I bet.”

“What did he use on you?”

Mycroft had no intention of answering this question. “Let me guess: he threatened to tell your husband about the affair?” Same old story…

“Yes. My husband and my children. He made… pictures…”

“Oh God…” He really didn’t even want to imagine them.

“He just asked about my colleagues and I told him. I was…”

“…feeling flattered that he showed so much interest in your work?” Mycroft ended her sentence drily.

She lowered her head. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Made you feel young and desired and…”

“Yes!” she suddenly yelled. “I know you're just laughing at me! I know you know about my interest in you and you'll never return it! I am aware you're probably gay! I still thought… we could be friends. But then your mood changed and I knew there was somebody…”

Mycroft tensed. That was not what he wanted to hear at all. He chose to not say anything to it.

“And lately you were rather nervous and… I know I think way too much about you. He was a means to distract me from you.”

So it was basically _his_ fault? “I didn’t force you to blather about me towards your… _lover_ ,” he chided. "Nor have I ever made you any wrong hopes." He should perhaps have been clearer. But since she had already figured out he was gay...

“No. I'm sorry. I didn’t really tell him anything but your name and that you're very powerful. I don't know anything about you.”

Thank God she had no idea where he lived. “But you told him you think I'm gay…”

“Yes… Isn't it true?”

Mycroft got up. “This, Lady Smallwood, is none of your business. And I would appreciate it if in future you kept silent about my existence. Just forget that I do exist outside of this building! I hope you've learned your lesson. Good evening.” And with this he left her office, stalked to the exit and entered the car that would bring him to Sherlock, and his nerves were vibrating the entire way, and he made sure nobody was following them. When he had calmed down a bit, he took out his phone and found the information he searched for without a problem, and then he closed his eyes until the car stopped in front of his house.

### Telling Sherlock

While Mycroft was calmly telling his brother about his conversation with a man neither had ever heard about until this day, word by word thanks to his eidetic memory, Sherlock paced through the living room. Mycroft had asked him to sit down with him but he should have known that was pointless. Onni was sitting in Mycroft's arm chair, worriedly watching them with his irresistible brown eyes.

Whenever Sherlock walked past him, Mycroft could see the younger man's face was stony. Only his narrowed eyes with the expression of simmering fury revealed how upset he was.

And Mycroft didn’t have any doubts that an upset, furious Sherlock was a very dangerous Sherlock. Still there had been no way to keep this from him. Magnussen would come back. With his candied tone and his innocent eyes he would tell Mycroft what he could possibly do for him. He had been in no hurry to do it, and Mycroft was sure he planned to take his time, wanting him to worry his brain about what he might want from him.

Somehow Mycroft didn’t think it would come to this. “He's listed in the phone book,” he said after finishing his report. “He's very sure of himself.” Magnussen lived in a wealthy area with high security of course.

“Is he now,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Thinks nothing can harm him,” Mycroft added.

Mycroft was a very powerful man. Magnussen had to know this. In fact this was the very reason why had picked him as a target. He wasn’t afraid of him. Because he had evidence cleared away that would become public if Mycroft threatened him? In all probability not. Because which sort of evidence did he have? He didn’t even know where Mycroft lived. He simply assumed his brother was staying with him. So what if he did? It was not forbidden to share a house with one's sibling. All the ghastly man had were assumptions and suspicions and nasty gossip.

Still Mycroft knew this was enough to destroy him. Magnussen was right. Of course he had enemies. They had always kept still, knowing about his power all-too-well. But if they had such explosive ammunition against him? There wasn't any proof needed. And he had said his father had been in the newspaper business. He might still have some contacts there...

The PM was an imbecile. He would listen to distasteful rumours. The Queen would learn about it somehow. Lady Smallwood would turn against him with the wrath of a woman who couldn’t have what she wanted. Mycroft had enemies. But he did not have any real friends…

It would really not be good for his reputation, and he couldn’t afford anyone to dig into his private life. Let alone in Sherlock's past. And with enough pressure or money people might really talk about it, contract or not. If it all came out, it would put an end to his beloved work for the police and depress him and throw him back in a way that couldn’t happen. Mycroft would never allow Sherlock to fall again, and he would never let him go again.

Finally Sherlock stopped his nervous pacing right in front of him. Their eyes met, no, their gazes bored into each other. A silent conversation took place between them. No word was spoken but their eyes said it all.

And then Sherlock was in his arms and their mouths found each other in a needy, almost violent kiss. They ended up on the couch, frantically tugging at each other's clothes. Mycroft vaguely saw Onni run out of the room as if to give them some privacy, and after this long, horrible day he finally smiled, and he saw Sherlock smiling back and winking at him, and then they proceeded to let this day end in a very satisfying way.

### A Visitor

The tall, thin man in the bespoke suit stopped dead in the door of his living room. “How… Who… You can't have got in! My security is bullet proof!”

Sherlock looked up from the book he'd been reading. “Is it? And still here I am. You didn’t realise it's disabled when you got in?”

“Who are you?” The man's voice was shaking.

Sherlock tutted. “You don't even remember the objects of your blackmailing-attempts, Mr Magnussen?” He was dressed in a black uniform that resembled the wear of a delivery service even though it had not been even necessary to disguise himself. In the heavy rain of this afternoon, nobody had been outside. But there were no direct neighbours anyway. Ironically, the man lived almost as secluded as he and Mycroft did. Which wasn't exactly in his favour now…

Finally the older man realised who he was. “You're the man who works for the police. Holmes' brother.”

Sherlock gave him an ironic little bow. “At your service. But you make that sounds as if I was a policeman. I'm most certainly not.”

Magnussen let himself fall into the armchair opposite of Sherlock's. He had arranged it for him. “So your brother sent you… to intimidate me?”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh no, we're just having a nice conversation!”

Magnussen grimaced when he recognised his own words he had uttered to Mycroft. He reached for the whiskey decanter on the table next to his chair and poured himself a drink. Then he looked at Sherlock with a questioning look.

Sherlock shook his head. “Thank you, but I don't drink.”

“Ah, a substance abuse problem, Mr Holmes?” Magnussen took a sip.

“Adding to your blackmailing portfolio?”

“You never know what kind of information might be useful.”

“So… Where is your… _archive_ then? The folders with all the nasty information? Because I bet you've got plenty of victims.”

Magnussen downed the rest of his whiskey and smiled. “I don't have one. It's all in my head.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “So if someone shot you in the head, it'll be all gone?”

“Quite. I don't see a weapon though.”

“Ah, yes. I could have borrowed one from the police but well, that would have been quite obvious. I could have stolen one from a criminal or a store but something could have gone wrong. Not worth the risk.” Sherlock tapped the forefinger of his gloved hand against his right cheekbone. “I did check your house for bugs and hidden cameras. Nothing there. Surprised me.”

Magnussen gave him a wry look. “Since my security is so perfect, I thought that wasn't necessary. And I don't invite my… victims as you put it… into my house. No sense in putting bugs in it then, is there? But it looks as if I was betrayed about the system. How did you get in here?”

“Piece of cake.”

Magnussen clenched his jaw and Sherlock gave him a friendly smile. It had surprised himself how easily he had taken to understand all these electronical wonders in this world he had never had access to until a few months ago. Understanding something meant you could sabotage it.

The older man sighed. “Well then. Why have you come? To tell me I've messed with the wrong men?”

“Doesn’t it look like you have?”

“Well. Yes. Who are you, Mr Holmes? You've popped up out of nowhere. Where have you been when the world thought you were dead?”

Sherlock chuckled. “The world. How pompous. The world didn’t give a damn about me being dead or alive. But as you asked so politely: I grew up in a high security prison. And this was _really_ high security.”

Magnussen leaned forward, his eyes glistening with interest. “Because you burnt your parents' house down?”

“Mostly. But I was frankly a bit… difficult. This place wasn't only a prison. It was also something like a hospital for challenging children, heavy on the therapy side. I killed a few people there,” Sherlock added in a casual tone.

Magnussen suddenly looked a tad bewildered. “You… Oh… And why…”

“Why did they let me go? Because I was healed of course. And too old for the facility. I had quite a good working relationship with their main doctor. He saw the good in me and said it was safe for me to be among normal people. Like my brother, the Iceman, the secret ruler of this country.” Sherlock said it full of pride.

“And… _Are_ you healed?” Magnussen's voice sounded a bit unstable now.

Sherlock laughed. “Of course not. Not when I find myself under dire circumstances at least. I'm very well able to blend in usually. I love my garden and my dog, well, I had to kill his owner to get him. And my brother is a gem. So is DI Lestrade. And our housekeeper is a great woman. Lovely people! But you, Mr Magnussen, are trash. And you know what happens to trash? It gets taken out.”

Magnussen got up from his chair, sweat appearing on his forehead. “What… did you do?”

“I am a bit surprised you really drank this whiskey, knowing I was alone here before you came. But in your arrogance you didn’t even consider the possibility that I could have poisoned it. And now _you_ are having a problem with substance abuse. _Liaventia ramira_. A vastly unknown but very beautiful plant from the Amazon. Looks very appealing in the garden and it thrives surprisingly well in our beautiful kingdom. I experimented a bit with the essence to hide the taste. Seems I was successful.”

Magnussen fumbled with his jacket, certainly to get his phone out. His movements were very slow though so Sherlock waited politely until he was holding the black smartphone in his shivering hand before he plucked it from it.

“Problems to breathe?” he asked with false sympathy. “I would have loved to kill you in a more spectacular and satisfying way because believe me – I love to put my hands in warm, human blood or even taste it but, well, that wouldn’t have been a good idea. Imagine they would have asked me to solve my own murder case! Would have been fun though… But it's a lot safer this way. Nobody will know you were poisoned. It will look like a simple heart attack.” Sherlock had sat down in his chair again, watching the tumbling man. “But probably they would hardly care if they knew you were murdered. You know, nobody likes blackmailers.”

To his disappointment, it took only a minute longer until Magnussen's eyes bulged and his heart gave up in cramps. He died with surprising dignity, lying on his thick, expensive carpet.

Sherlock put the phone back into his pocket and took the decanter to the loo, got rid of the poisoned substance and washed the glass vessel out, then he replaced the liquid with the content of a new bottle, and he did the same with Magnussen's glass. Then he arranged the man in his armchair. He had checked beforehand that there were no pets to be taken care of. Not that he would have expected that. A man like this one wasn't likely to be an animal lover. He didn't even have plants in his house!

Sherlock made sure to not leave any traces. He had worn gloves all the time so there were no fingerprints to be removed. Remarkable that Magnussen had seen the gloves and not immediately realised that he wouldn’t survive their conversation. But then – people were stupid, even if they thought they were so clever.

When everything looked like it had before he had entered the house, he put the alarm system back in action and left to go back home. Mycroft would return from work soon and dinner had to be prepared.

### A Very Nice Evening

When Mycroft came home this evening, two days after his conversation with Mr Magnussen, he knew from Sherlock's smile when he greeted him that it was over. He didn't even ask his brother if he had handled the matter discreetly, trusting him to have done nothing less. They hadn't discussed about it any further. He had known it was not necessary.

He cradled his arms around Sherlock's slim waist after thoroughly scratching Onni's furry head, and they looked into each other's eyes for a sweet, long moment. "My dangerous devil of a brother," Mycroft caught himself purring.

Sherlock grinned. "Am I now? And what is to be done with dangerous devils, especially such handsome specimen?"

"They get fucked," Mycroft said drily, and his heart made a little jump when Sherlock laughed out loud.

"Oh, I see! Well, I'm sure they appreciate this kind of reward."

Mycroft kissed his lips. "Don't mess with the Holmes brothers, right?"

"Better not. They are some icy, dangerous fellows. Are you not hungry?"

"I am. For you. If dinner can wait a while longer?"

Sherlock smiled. "It can. It's more of a late brunch."

"Brunch for dinner sounds delicious."

"I know what else is delicious."

"So do I, brother mine, so do I."

*****

It could have been a rather rough clashing after the tension of the past days had been resolved and the danger of being exposed was over for now (and Mycroft knew they had to be aware this could happen again), but instead it turned out to be the most tender encounter they had shared so far. For about half an hour all they did was kiss, Mycroft lying on top of his brother, settled between his thighs, both wearing nothing but their underpants, their hard cocks rubbing against each other in a slow, lazy rhythm that was building up a delicious tension nobody was in a hurry to get rid of.

Mycroft could have just kissed those lips forever, feeling Sherlock's arms around his neck. Eventually he broke the kiss just to start nibbling at Sherlock's chin and neck and nuzzle his face into the sensitive space between Sherlock's ear and hairline.

Before he proceeded to take him further apart, he searched his gaze. “What would you do if anyone tried to take me away from you?” He had no idea where this thought had come from and why he was even asking, as of course he knew the answer very well.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I'd feed them with their own intestines. Why? You're planning to leave me?” The smirk in his tone made Mycroft smile.

“Never, little brother. Just wanted to be sure.”

“I see. What about you? What if a certain grey-haired DI tries to get in my pants?”

“Oh, I've heard Siberia is nice this time of year.”

Sherlock chuckled, and so did he, and then he was all over him again, reducing his frightening baby brother to a shivering mess, making him groan and bend his back like a contortionist when he wrapped his lips around the engorged head of his cock and then began noisily sucking the veiny shaft while gently fondling Sherlock's balls. Sherlock was moving frantically on the mattress now, invading his throat with needy thrusts, and it was over within about two minutes. Mycroft took all his brother pumped out of his prick and then lay down next to him, his erection searching for friction at Sherlock's thigh, and Sherlock, boneless and almost blacked out by his orgasm, turned to deftly pumping it, making Mycroft spill over his smooth thigh, and then they found themselves tightly snuggled up, Mycroft breathing in his brother's sex-sweaty scent, and a feeling of peace was engulfing him.

He knew the danger was not over. Magnussen wasn’t any threat anymore but Sherlock's work for the police was known to the public now and they couldn’t erase everybody who knew about his past. Mycroft hoped they would keep silent like they were supposed to, and if not, well, they were to be dealt with accordingly.

“Will you return to the crime scenes now?” he asked his brother, stroking his damp back.

“I think so. But I'll make clear I don't want any press people near me in any way.”

“You could also work for private clients,” Mycroft suggested. “Perhaps rent a small office somewhere in the city or just meet them in their home or restaurants maybe.”

“Hm,” Sherlock made. “Could be fun. Will have to choose my clients very carefully though.”

“Just promise me one thing…”

“What, Mycie?” Sherlock smiled and brushed a kiss onto his lips.

“Come back to me every day.”

“Easiest promise in the world.”

Mycroft pulled him even closer and thought that this should better be right.

Because there would never be a life without Sherlock for him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if there will be a third part. This one was already a challenge to write and frankly the response is low enough to doubt that there is demand for more of this universe. Will try to write another idea for now.
> 
> Oh, and of course this flower Sherlock mentioned doesn't exist.


End file.
